New York, A series of stand alones
by Halfspell
Summary: Lighthearted, silly and fun. Technically, it's Brian and Justin's adventures in New York post 513, of course but the New York series isn't a pre-req to enjoying these stories. I've grouped them all together to make life easier.
1. Chapter 1

The no good very bad day.

"Fucking Armani whore ... Brian! Next time pick up your own god damned dry cleaning!" It was one of those days. The ones where I want to go to bed at two in the afternoon for the sole reason that it'd mean the day was over and I didn't have to deal with it anymore. It wasn't really a bad day, just a really really stupid one. Which was almost worse. And it didn't look like it was anywhere near ending, either. At the moment, I was juggling keys, dry cleaning, a bag of art supplies, Brian's stupid fucking guava juice and the door, all trying to just get into the house. My shirt was sticking to me because of the New York summer and because I fell -- yes, fell -- onto a commission piece I had been working on. There was no A.C. in my studio and the piece was totally trashed. Not a good day, all things considered.

Mercifully, the dry cleaning and the guava juice vanished from my hands. "It's on your way home from the studio. What the fuck happened to you?" Ah, the voice of reason, coming from the most unlikely of sources. I was just barely starting to relax, that is until he licked a fucking fingertip and started rubbing at a giant red splotch I knew covered my cheek and went down my neck. "It's in your hair, too. Christ, Justin, did a mob of hunger crazed starving artists attack you?" The fingertip trailed down and yanked at the collar of my t-shirt so he could look down it. Stupid, smug Kinney.

The bag of art shit made its way into his arms, so he could juggle crap for a while, and I yanked my shirt off over my head. I have to admit, it was sort of funny watching his eyebrows shoot up like that. I would have laughed if I wasn't so pissy. Paint was all over me. Seriously. All over. "You look like a technicolor leper." Trust him to know the perfect thing to say.

"Fuck off." And trust me to have a witty come back ready and waiting. Me and my art supplies just stormed up the stairs towards my home-bound studio space and his home office. And I think I was very considerate in not trashing his desk, though I really wanted to. Instead, I sat at my computer and pretended to work and listened to him bustle around on the first and second floors. The town house creaked with every damned footstep and for the first time the great old hardwood floords were annoying the shit out of me.

"What're you going to do when you're a million fucking years old and need a walker? You can't stomp off dramatically on one of those." He was coming up the stairs, fiddling with his expensive as shit camera, hooking up the external flash. "Get up."

"I won't need to stomp off dramatically when I'm a million fucking years old because you'll be already dead. What the fuck are you doing?"

Have I mentioned how much I hated his superior, smug smile when it's aimed at me? It was a beautiful smile; I just wanted to claw it off his beautiful face. "This is a camera." He lifted the thing and smiled at me like I was a retarded toddler. "It takes pictures. Get up." He shook the camera gently, as if that was going to tempt me into dancing for it or something.

"I know what it's for, asshole. Why should I let you take blackmail photos of me?"

"Who said anything about blackmail? Look, I won't leave you alone until you get up. You know I won't. You'll bitch, but you'll do it. So, spare me the grief and just get up?" And the sad thing was that I knew the bastard was right. I could get up and spare us both my drama and the aggravation of an argument or I could sulk and yell at him all day. I got up. It was the easier option.

And the flash nearly blinded me. "Fuck!"

"Hey, Princess. Pose a little. Try to look hot and bothered instead of just bothered."

"What?"

"Justin." Brian lowered the camera from his face and gave me a soulful, long suffering look. "Just do this. Just humor me for fifteen god damned minutes and I'll leave you alone. Okay?"

"Jerk." But I gotta admit, it was only half-hearted as best. So, that's how I found myself standing there in half undone jeans, trying to look sultry. Really, I probably looked pissy, but I'm hoping since I wasn't looking directly at the camera, it's coming across as hot. Probably not. He does catch his breath, though, when I yanked a little at the waist of my jeans and cupped myself through my underwear. The little noise made my chin come up and my lips open, just a tiny bit, and I can feel my eyes narrow, just a little. I'm so easy, most times. Sometimes I think it should embarrass me more than it does.

"Fuck, Justin, you and those underwear." But it's a soft groan of approval at me and my tighty whities. They turn him into a complete perv. Why else wear them? "You'd be perfect for an ad. Fuck if I know which one, but whatever the hell you're selling, I'd buy it." The camera was flashing away and Brian was making all these soft, appreciative noises that were just killing me, but in a really good way. I don't think he's even aware he makes them. "Oh, yeah" and "Just like that" and "God, right there". All this goes on until my jeans are around my knees and my pubes are just peeking out of the tops of my briefs. It's only then that I heard him set the camera down and seriously, all at once, he's yanking down my underwear and sucking my dick into his mouth and shoving a finger up my ass. We're both easy. Really, it should be embarrassing, but it never has been.

It was my turn to make noises, then, though mine are a whole hell of a lot less articulate and a lot louder, but who could blame me? The onslaught of teeth and tongue and hands, oh God, his hands kneading my ass hard, it was just so sudden! How was I supposed to survive that?

I'm weak-kneed when he sits back, cleaning his face like a smug tom cat, swiping me off his cheeks and chin with his fingers and licking them clean. A tongue joins his, and it's mine, which is no real surprise. He's like a drug, a habit I've tried to break, but I fucking can't. The need for him's in my blood and sometimes, when something happens to show me his need for me, I'm surprised. Today, though, I just take his need into my body and let the high throw me around until I can't take it anymore. Until we both break.

Later, when we're both naked on the floor and I'm still covered in paint and now our mingled sweat, and I swear I can still feel his pulse beating in my ass; when his hand is busy running lazy circles on my blue and silver stained stomach, like he can't stand to not touch me, he has the balls to ask, "So, has your day gotten any better?"

So sue me if I laugh and roll over onto him. It's gotten better, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

_Painting lessons_

_You found him once asleep on the fire escape; naked and curled in a nest of thick blankets like a fairy tale waiting for you. Like salvation for the world and it would destroy you to wake him, but it felt so good to be destroyed. He smiled when he woke and welcomed you in and you felt your heart burst in your chest and flood down your body, but it was all right. It felt good._

"Pull, Emmett. Pull, pull, pull. It needs to stretch a little more."

"You know, sweetie. When I said I wanted to experience art, I meant more like ... go to a museum, be pretentious in front of a couple of paintings, that sort of thing. Not … this."

"That's not art. That's um. Something else."

"Oh. Well. That's … that's um. Deep, sweetie. Really deep."

"What the fuck are they doing?" Michael's voice is warm against your ears, relaxed and amused in a way he hasn't been in a while and the beer he held out was cold and welcome. You cradled the cool wet bottle between your palms for a while, before drinking.

"Stretching a canvas. Emmett wanted to see what being an artist was like, so Justin's showing him."

"And you're spectating?"

"Naturally. You know I love a good comedy."

_You found him once asleep with a wet brush in his hand, his forehead resting against the wet canvas. Muses, apparently, didn't realize the limits of human endurance and pushed at him 'till he fell asleep. And you tried not to laugh when he woke and wore his ideas like war paint, smudged over a bemused and sleepy face. And you kept that painting, too, face plant and all._

Emmett shot you and Mikey both a dirty look, where you lounged on an old warhorse of a couch, watching, while Justin made a strangled noise, deep in his throat.

His voice was tight with control and something else, when he spoke. "Emmett, you just stapled my finger." Ah. Pain. That's what it was.

"Oh my God!" The staple gun dropped from Emmett's suddenly nerveless fingers and every muscle in your body tensed, ready to bear down on the situation and pare away every unnecessary thing. Which was everything but him. You didn't move, though. Not yet. While Emmett fluttered and flustered, you kept a death grip on Michael's arm, fingers digging in to keep him from rushing over. To keep you from rushing over.

"He's done worse," you explain, your voice at odds with the vibrating tension singing through you. Mikey just looked at you, a silent 'OW!' smeared across his indignant face. But you didn't relax until Justin looked over at you and rolled his eyes in exasperation at the nervous birds Emmett's hands had become. And popped the bloody finger into his mouth to suck clean and closed.

"War wounds," he uttered around himself and laughed softly. "It's fine, Em. I'm fine. Don't worry, I've done worse to myself."

"But I made you bleed all over the canvas!"

_You found him asleep once in your bed in an odd mish-mash of clothing that you had to get him to explain. He was hot, he mumbled sleepily, so his underwear came off, but not hot enough to take off his tee shirt. But his feet were cold, only he thought he must have lost a sock in bed somewhere, since only one foot was snugged in plush fabric._

"Yeah, I have. Shit." Occasionally, he pulled his finger from his mouth to examine it and it was during one of those examinations that you stretched out a hand, reaching for him, for the finger, unwilling to just sit anymore. This wouldn't give away your tension, your need, your worry. This was just simple concern. When the red welled up and threatened to spill, you popped his finger into your own mouth without thinking, while Justin stared at the minor mess of his canvas and considered.

"It's fine," he finally decided, while you wrinkled your nose at the weird, coppery taste of him. "A couple of coats of gesso should cover it. … What?"

It was then that you finally noticed the odd look you were getting from both Michael and Emmett, wide eyed and staring like you had lost your mind and went and mooned the mayor or something.

"You … Brian, that's … dangerous," Michael was murmuring, soft voice fit for a hospital. "You … both have been tested, right?" Michael with his sweet, soft concern. Justin's finger slipped from your mouth and you wrapped your own around it, putting pressure on the staple bite. The artist shrugged and tipped his head while his acolyte blinked several times, considering.

"Yeah, but we've been barebacking for a few months now. This isn't really a big deal anymore," Justin explained. It wasn't, once you played connect the dots, only Michael wasn't the best at that game. You watched his mind wriggle down the halls of the mental maze and come up flat against a dead end.

"You …! Are you fucking nuts?!"

"I think he means that they're … well. That they're just them, Michael." Emmett was always better at leaps of faith, anyway. Justin nodded absently, already thinking about the canvas again, and reclaimed his finger to poke absently at the puncture.Michael simply stared.

"Holy shit. You mean monogamous?"

"Weirder shit has happened," you quip and sit back with your beer while the artist spares you a moment to flash a grin. All for you. A moment of pure summer sunlight before Emmett's being hauled off to his next lesson involving gesso and staying away from fingers with sharp objects.

_And every time you found him, you breathed in a soft breath of relief and life and anchored yourself in him, in his safety, while well meaning storms raged around you. On the fire escape, in war paint, wearing nothing but a sock and a shirt. And it was good._


	3. Chapter 3

Prizes

When he suggested the Coney Island carnival, all on a whim, I didn't say no. It was the typical carnival with cheap food, beer and rides, all at inflated prices but it was us being out somewhere that wasn't the office or the current gallery and it didn't involve me pretending to be interested in whatever the fuck it was that was currently being spouted, droned or whined at me. Christ, just deal with it, people. It's what we pay you for. Grow some balls and deal. So, I agreed to the carnival, but my one stipulation was cell phones off. No ringtones, no vibrate, no silent mode. Just off. Like he'd disagree. He was just as sick of the phone calls as I was.

And I'll admit the carnival wasn't that bad, though the food was. Justin'll be nursing a hell of a 'tummy ache' later, but right now he was happy and so was I. And I will be happy later, too, because I was eating a box of prepackaged crackerjacks and not some deep fried play dough covered in questionable sugar.

"What's your prize?" He was licking sugar off his fingers and I'll admit, I watched. I spent most of my life with a one track mind, so why stop now? Besides, not half an hour earlier he had dragged me onto the fucking ferris wheel. But not for the ridiculous sighing over each other, like I had thought (and would have done, too, so shut the fuck up). No. He wanted to ride so he could shove his sticky fingers down the front of my jeans and to try to suck my soul out through my mouth. I didn't mind that, since I had my hands down the back of his cargos and his tongue in my mouth. So file a lawsuit if it bugs people that I've got a certain idea on the brain.

"You mean this thing or what's coming later?" I flicked a finger at the cheap, green stuffed snake wound around his neck. Some prize from some too expensive carnival game. He claimed he was going to name it Trousers. Ten bucks for a cheap green felt snake named Trousers. God, it was ugly.

"I meant in the crackerjacks, Brian."

"Oh. I dunno. I haven't gotten to it yet." I shook the box and glanced down into it. About halfway done. Still a ways to go till I hit the bottom.

"You didn't go diving for it yet? I always thought you were an instant gratification sort of guy."

"Justin, how long, exactly, did it take me to finally move to New York to be with you?" Instant gratification? Though, that had been a hard lesson to learn, a crazy insane test to pass. But it was worth it, worth every agonizing and annoying second, when I considered that the last time we made each other truly miserable was back in the Pitts.

"Mm. How old am I, again?"

"Almost thirty, twat." He smiled at the affection in the insult.

"There's my answer, I guess. So go diving for it now. I'm curious."

"You're always curious." But I did go digging for the prize, expecting stickers or lick on tattoos or something just as useless and dumb. It wasn't. "..Huh."

"What is it?" When he craned his neck over to see, his stuffed snake hit me in the face and I smacked at it irritably.

"Down Trousers. Bad boy." It only makes him laugh. I'm a sucker for his laughs. "It's a whistle ring."

"A what?"

"A whistle ring." I demonstrated, blowing through the ring and making a stupid whirling squeal noise. He, of course, loved it instantly.

"That's awesome!" First he's excited over a stuffed snake, then fried dough, then a plastic ring. I've taught that boy nothing. Thank God he'll never change.

"Gimme your hand." I was ditching the rest of the crackerjacks into a trashcan we passed and licking my own fingers clean now. "No, your other hand."

"My left."

"Yeah." The green, plastic thing fit perfectly on his ring finger. There. Looked perfect, or something.

"... Brian?"

"Mm?" I was still holding onto his hand and playing innocent as hard as I could. It was rough, since I kept wanting to grin. We played the stupidest games sometimes.

"You just gave me a ring." Any moment now he was going to start laughing again. That was my prize. A crazy, shining, beautiful, laughing artist.

"I did?" Oh, imagine that.

"This ring," he said through fake sniffles and real snickers, "represents our love." He even fanned himself with his right hand to fight off the fake vapors.

"What, green, plastic and makes a stupid noise when you blow through it?"

"Its .. ah. Uh. A surrealist representation."

"Our love is bad modern art. Great. Like that painting you took me to see. The huge piece of graphing paper." We were still walking past games and watching those was easier than watching him at moments like these. He was too bright to look at. But I still could fucking hear his smile. Fucking hear it.

"Oh yeah. The Rose. I bought a poster of it for you." The fingers of his left hand tangled with mine and squeezed.

"I know. I burnt it." He was still smiling and still wearing that stupid green bit of plastic, all the way home. Wore it through sex that night and blew on it in the silent moments after coming and collapsing into the sheets. It left us both curled up against one another, absolutely helpless with laughter. And two days later, when I climbed into the 'vette for a quick buzz down to the office, I saw it hanging from my rear view mirror, tied up with a god awful piece of yarn. I could also see Justin, in loose track pants and a paint spattered tshirt, leaning up against the door and biting his lip to keep from smiling. He absolutely lost it when I blew through the ring and peeled off, and I couldn't help the grin on my face. I loved this fucking green thing.


	4. Chapter 4

Surprise Monogamy

All kinds of expensive ductwork was put into the house before we moved in. All for perfect multi-zonal climate control, because fuck if Brian was going to deal with something as primitive as window kickers. But despite all that, the timed perfection of perfectly cooled air in the summer, I'm still sweating like a fat lady outside in July. Brian's making me work, today. I can't say that I really mind, though, since the feel of his tongue gathering salt off my skin is just incredible. And he gathers it from everywhere, from the space between my shoulder blades, from the backs of my knees, from my belly, ruthlessly and mindlessly shoving the coffee table when it gets in his way. I'm fighting to get it back, too, the salt, leaving his skin pinked and wet in my wake, occasionally trying to steal it directly from his mouth. That fight doesn't last long, though, with one or the other of us breaking away and heading towards an ear or down a neck.

How long this has been going on, I don't know, but I do know that every fucking time I reach out for his need or my own, to move this along, my hands get slapped away. It's enough to make anyone frustrated. This time's no different.

"God dammit!" My hands are being pinned down again, held fast so they can't get anywhere, though they're trying like hell. And I'm hearing the most evil little snicker come out of his amazing mouth. He smothers it against my thigh. It makes me so hard that I'm afraid I'm going to pop, right there, in a huge, messy explosion. "I was going to jack you off!"

"I know." His voice, God, his voice. It slides across my skin physically, palms me in all the right places and makes me squirm. Makes me beg without uttering a single word. Makes me work for everything he lets me feel, every sensation. I love the hot and dirty fucks like this. It'll be good.

"Let me touch myself, then, you jackass! I'm so hard I hurt. Brian!" We've got the cutest pet names for each other, I think. A moment later, I've forgotten what I was yelling about, because he's filled his mouth with me and is drawing me along, making my body bow into arches, taut in the very physical tide of pleasure. I'm a weird combination of loose and tight, my legs and knees suddenly boneless and easily moved aside and the rest of me pulling inward and squeezing a very soft and breathy _"...Oh!"_ from my lungs.

The bastard won't let me climax yet, though I'm dying to. I want to so badly. But his mouth and tongue's enough to blunt the very edge of my want, so when he pulls away I'm able to just go limp. I know what he's reaching for and can wait for it. So long as he isn't all day about it. I think he knows, too, because I can hear a cellophane crinkle that's been a part of the whole sex experience for me since my very first time.

What's new is the pause and the fact that instead of ripping the package open and sliding the condom on, he's teasing me with it. Running it along my legs, flicking it across sensitive skin and soothing it better with his lips when I inhaled a hiss of protest. The damned wrapper was almost too painful. The hiss, though, let him know he had my attention.

"Oh, Sunshine?" I know what that tone meant. It meant he wanted to play. It made me exhale hard and throw an arm over my eyes. Why now? "When's the last time you were tested?"

"Tested. Like ... STD's?" In my defense, all the blood in my body was making my dick threaten to explode. There was none left for my brain. "Uh.. fuck. Fuckfuck... Three weeks? You went and got tested the same time. ...Why?"

"And when's the last time you fucked someone other than me?" His eyes were sharp, pinned to mine, since I propped myself up on elbows to look down at him. Sharp and plotting. A sharper grin was being smothered against my thigh again.

I licked my lip with the tip of my tongue while I thought. The grin turned into wet, open mouthed kisses and it was a little distracting. "God, I just want you in me... uh. It's.. wow. Eight months. Yeah, about that. Like ... five weeks before you showed up."

"It's been seven months for me." His voice was slick and seductive and incredibly pleased with himself. I was too busy tipping my cheek against his voice to realize exactly what he was saying. But when I got it, it made me sit completely upright and stare hard at the smug smile settled in eyes and lips and his whole damned body. Every inch of him was smug.

"..Holy fuck." The sheer idea of it, the utter impossibility of it, just turned me on like nobody's business. I think I actually shook with it, but everything was sort of fuzzy. He batted me on the nose with the still wrapped condom. "Holy fuck..." A moment later he had it unwrapped and was actually blowing up the damned thing. When he let it go, it flew around the room and I watched it, laughing. Naturally, he pounced then, shoving me back down and hauling my legs up to make space for him. The feel of him and the lube and just him, no latex, nothing but him him him up inside me was an incredible mind fuck. An incredible fuck period. Neither of us would last long, not this time, but it was .. it was ... amazing. "Ohgod ohgod ohgod..." I was clawing at his back with my fingers and toes and even my teeth, trying to dig in and he was holding tight, pounding me into the floor like he had no control. I don't think either of us did, writhing against each other with almost no technique, my back sticking to the wood floor.

I felt like a firework going off. Bright lights and loud bangs and heat, _heat_, and I'm sure I shouted at the end, but I couldn't hear myself.

The aftermath left me with a deep and satisfying tingle in all my limbs along with a bone weary pleasant exhaustion. Brian lay atop me with his lips against my neck and I just smiled, absolutely blissed out over the really odd feeling of .. of, well, Brian dripping out of me. It was sort of gross, but in a really .. really amazing way.

"Sunshine, you need to clear your schedule for the next couple of days." The words were slurred against my throat. Felt good. But then, at this moment, if the house fell down around us, it'd feel good. Anything'd feel good.

"Fuckfest weekend?" Forgive me my enthusiasm over the idea.

"Oh yeah."

"We've got a lot of condoms."

"...we'll donate them to Goodwill." I was laughing at that and shoving at his shoulder, rolling the both of us over to begin again. Amazing.


	5. Chapter 5

Surprise Monogamy, Part Two

The house stank of sex. Not just the scent of it, the traces in the air left over as part of the aftermath. Not the feather touch of it, elusive and brushing across cheeks and sinus passages. No, it hits you like a tidal wave and maybe with just as much power, when you walk through the door and it smells better than the lattes you went out for. Better than anything you could put name to. No, it smells incredible. Hot. Even if the thought of another round with Justin makes most of your body ache in protest.

You find Justin still sprawled out face first on the sofa in his studio and he's offering an incredibly sweet and sleepy smile either at you or the lattes. You're hoping it's you and not just the promise of a meal before getting it on again. Since your rear isn't as sore as his, sitting on the floor by his head's no big deal. Leaving him to hog all the sofa he wants. "I got a couple of muffins too, for your bottomless pit. How d'you feel?"

He sits up just enough to accept the take away coffee cup and slurps a bit into his mouth through the plastic lid before replying. The coffee's good, damned good, and it shows all over his face. He looks like he's climaxing all over again for just a bare instant. "Flooded." It makes you smile and makes him laugh and reach for the paper bag you brought up with you to examine the contents. There are two muffins, but it's pretty much understood that he'd inhale both of them. "But that's not a surprise, since you came like fifty times in my ass and I only got to come like three in yours."

"If I came fifty times in two days, my dick would fall off. It's sore as it is." Still, he does have a point. You're sure at this point that there isn't a single surface in the entire house, up to and including one of his wet canvases, that you have fucked him against. You're pretty sure that you've never had a work out like that, given how loudly your muscles are protesting their abuse. And all because feeling him, really feeling him, got to you in a way that almost nothing else ever has. Your chin's resting on the couch cushions by his face, since holding up your head takes so much damned energy and he's smiling sleepily. "I think you need a day to recover." You think _you_ need a day to recover.

"From the fuckfest? Mm. I'll be fine in a couple of hours. The last time was just .. intense." He's wrong there. All of them were intense. Because all of them lacked a certain something. Namely, a condom. And with the promise of every single time from here on being just as intense, well, you're willing to change a couple of ideas on monogamy. Who knew it could be so interesting? Apparently, you did, or at least your body did, though it didn't see fit to clue you in on it till the other afternoon, when it just struck you, struck you hard, that you hadn't ... in that long... Sort of scary, really. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, way up high, high enough to steal air from your lungs.

"This is how you look when you're finished a big deal important painting." Sated and pleased. A bit of blond hair wraps easily around your finger and then slides off. It needs to be washed, his hair. So does yours, for that matter. You both need to shower, badly, but neither one of you wants to shower alone and if you went together ... well. Another round would be touched off. At least, that's what you thought, but given the utter exhaustion in his face and the utter exhaustion just going down the block for coffee caused in you, you might be wrong. It's stupid, acting this way, but you can't help it and furthermore, you're not sure you want to help it.

"Like the one that got smeared over your back?" Either the latte, the muffin, or both were helping to revive Justin, because he was pushing himself up on elbows to eye a mess of reds and golds that once had tiny and impressive details to it. Once. The details were now smeared over your back in some sort of weird paint on tattoo. It's sort of uncomfortable, but it was worth it to see just how hot having his painting on you made him. Like you were his canvas, his art, his life. It's something you want to try purposefully one night, instead of accidentally. "I'm putting that in the next show I do. I'll call it ... ah. I'll call it.. huh. I don't know. Afterglow or something."

"You're delirious, eat your muffin. There's almost nothing left on the canvas. Just a huge mess." But you're both grinning like idiots through the entire exchange. You grinned like an idiot at the coffee shop down the block, stinking of sex and sweat and the paint that was making your shirt cling to your back. It scared the coffee girls behind the counter, that's for sure. Only crazy people smiled that much in New York. And you were crazy. It's official. The ones that weren't scared were turned on.

"I can't. I'm too tired." For once in his life he was pushing food away and laying back down. So much for caffeine. A bit of his hair draped over his eye and you reached out to wrap it around your finger again.

"Then sleep. But don't expect me to carry you to bed or anything." You did need sleep, the both of you. Fucking takes it out of you.

"Lesbionic?"

"No, my arms are too sore." A tired chuckle is coaxed out of him for that, and he's pillowing his head in his arms. "What's wrong with here?" The studio, the sofa. Wouldn't be the first time you've done it.

"Not a thing. You know, lesbionic always makes me think of bionic lesbians. I should call Michael and we should put them in the comic." You're sliding out of clothing you shouldn't be caught dead in and sliding onto the couch, fitting yourself around his curves and angles and pulling down a god awful throw over the both of you.

"You're really delirious. Gayopolis doesn't need mechanical twats." It's ridiculous how quickly you both fall asleep, like sleep was just waiting for you to give in. It snatched the both of you up with surprisingly gentle fingers, leaving his voice fading in your ears, still babbling about bionic munchers. It's better than music.


End file.
